


Patricide

by en passant (corinthian)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nothing is as healing as the human touch." - Bobby Fischer</p><p>A character study, of sorts. The future can only be reached by stepping on the corpses of the past, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It took Seto Kaiba three weeks before he noticed the letter. It had been jammed in with the rest of his mail, innocuous and plain with no return address. Someone had hand delivered it, if not directly to his office than at least to Kaiba Corp’s mail room. Normally Kaiba didn’t bother with useless mail, especially not since most of it were solicits for money or infuriatingly stupid notes of hatred or appreciation. But as Kaiba had moved to drop the letter in the trash he noticed the address on the letter was “1. e4 e5 2. Nf3 Nc6 3. Bb5.” A challenge, or an idiot who could use the internet, either way it was most likely a waste of time. However, he hadn’t turned down a challenge in his life. Kaiba opened the letter, schooling his face into disinterest even though there was no one else in the office to see his expression.

_75628 28591 62916 48164 91748 58464 74748 28483 81638 18174_  
74826 26475 83828 49175 74658 37575 75936 36565 81638 17585  
75756 46282 92857 46382 75748 38165 81848 56485 64858 56382  
72628 36281 81728 16463 75828 16483 63828 58163 63630 47481  
91918 46385 84656 48565 62946 26285 91859 17491 72756 46575  
71658 36264 74818 28462 82649 18193 65626 48484 91838 57491  
81657 27483 83858 28364 62726 26562 83759 27263 82827 27283  
82858 47582 81837 28462 82837 58164 75748 58162 92000 

It was a cipher. There weren’t any hints but after a few mental rundowns of possibilities something tugged on his memory. Kaiba let out a snort and dropped the paper onto his desk. It was, undoubtedly, after he ran through the numbers again the D'Agapeyeff cipher. He’d only crossed it briefly in his studies — Gozaburo had had no patience for unsolvable ciphers and preached stocks over puzzles. 

Of course Kaiba could read the message loud and clear. This was the opening move.

—

Seto’s father hadn’t been a chess player, but he had a ferocious scrabble player. The kind of game that had been difficult when Seto was small — after all, scrabble was in English. By the time he was six, however, he was staging grand rematches against his father. This his father had allowed with a knowing smile, correcting words (“Sorry, Seto, but ‘ranned’ isn’t a word.”) and getting the boy a Japanese to English dictionary on his next birthday. There was a quiet intensity that Seto applied to board games — their family had a number of them, but it was Scrabble and Chess that got the most use.

Seto’s mother had taught him chess, but it hadn’t been her game either. She knew though, as soon as her son had played his first game against her, that he would be a champion. She got him books, checked out form the library and watched him pour over them hungrily. They had splurged to rent the foreign film _Searching for Bobby Fischer_ , not at Seto’s request, but his mother’s. Seto had been enthralled, and asked if there were people who played speed chess at their local park. She promised to take him the next day, to look. For two years Seto went to the park every Saturday to find a new opponent. 

He won almost all of his chess matches. The ones he lost, he was over reliant on his queen.

—

Seto’s father was a Grandmaster. Once achieved the title of Grandmaster is held for life — it was immortal power, even if the mind or body behind it declines. It was something that Seto had known, when he challenged him at the orphanage. He also knew that Gozaburo was arrogant, rich and not looking for children. He only knew what was in the newspapers, but in the days leading up to Gozaburo Kaiba’s visit he read every scrap he could find and poured over the match logs that were public. Gozaburo had lost a handful of tournament matches, he hadn’t received his title for perfection but for enduring victory. Seto formulated a plan.

Mirror chess can never win, but it can make a point.

In a way, he had been practicing for the encounter since he had arrived at the orphanage. Tears had never done him any good, and they were all dry by that time anyway. He had found that being nice to his peers got him nowhere fast — all children were selfish, after all. In truth, he had never enjoyed time with his peers either, more content to go to the park and play chess than go to playdates. If he behaved, if he was a _darling little independent gentleman_ as the matron of the orphanage was fond of saying, the adults left him alone. They gave him false responsibilities, let him take care of Mokuba and stopped trying to sugarcoat their words around him. If he gave the impression he was older, people responded to it.

In a way, people were easy, and it was a lesson he learned early. The adults who ran the orphanage had prepared him without even knowing it. Children were expected to be seen, not heard. The heavy locks on all the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator were for control — everyone had to ask for food or drink. The first time Seto had asked why that was he’d been given an Adult’s Answer. The kind of answer that children were expected to accept — because that’s how things are, because adults know what’s good for you. The second time, when he’d demanded milk for Mokuba, he’d received a Shut Up Answer — don’t presume to tell us you know what’s better for your brother, you’re just a child. The third time, though, he’d changed tactics. He’d said: Surely, this can’t be legal. It wasn’t an accusation, but it was enough that he’d seen the reaction it provoked.

Adults didn’t like to be challenged, and they were as perceptive to power as children were. He was certain, then, if he had asked nicely he would have been given an Adult’s Answer again. If he had appealed to their parental urges perhaps they would have yielded. Instead he had received a slap for his defiance and no lunch for two days.

Gozaburo, then, he reasoned must be the same way. It was just another game, he needed to figure out the right opening move and then it was up to skill to get what he wanted.

—

He hadn’t expected a second opening move. The email that he received was from “Ruy Lopez” so it was obviously connected to the letter he had received, but it only contained “Queen’s Gambit Declined” in the body. The subject line had been left blank, the mail service filling in (No Subject) in an infuriatingly impersonal way.

What a waste of time.

He saved the email and poured over it, taking it apart down to its code to see if there was anything hidden, but there wasn’t. Someone had wanted his attention, had received it and then not added anything else to it. 

It was almost disappointing. Since he had stopped dueling — not an official retirement, but a de facto one — he had felt somewhat aimless. Business was its own puzzle, of course, but it was also populated by greedy idiots. That made them easy to use but not necessarily very satisfying. In some ways, as well, the more stable his business got the less he cared. Mokuba would point out that it was nice, since it meant Seto could do more development and invention and less day to day paper shuffling.

What a waste of time.

He consumed mundane tasks. He took on as much as possible, holding tightly to the business he had inherited with no intention to let go. It filled his days, especially since he had long ago graduated from high school.

What a waste of time.

—

There was no lock on the pantry in Gozaburo’s kitchen. There were no locks on the outside of the doors. There was a deceptive openness to the large hallways that carried whispers to vicious echoes. Seto decided very early on that he hated the house. Later he would say he hated his house. Then later still, _this is mine, no one can take what’s mine._

They were allowed to choose their rooms. Mokuba wanted their rooms to be close to each other, overlooking the courtyard. It was the best view on the house, but also in the wing that was away from Gozaburo’s home office and the study. Seto asked Mokuba — no, he’d demanded it, really — to stay there. He chose his own room near the study. Mokuba had been upset but in that silent way that meant he was afraid.

We’re growing up, Mokuba. Seto may have said. He would think he said it, but years later would be unable to confirm it with his own perfect memory. Or, rather, almost perfect memory. There were holes in his time under Gozaburo’s tutelage that bothered him. He knew why it was, of course. The human brain could perform when tired but limited tasks and encoding memories could be effected by lack of sleep.

The body can function when the mind is unwilling. There had been more mornings than he cared to remember where he could recall — perhaps it was the surprise that had cut through him at the time that secured the memory in his brain — where he had looked down at the sheet of formulas or the essay he’d been writing, to find it complete. Relief, he also learned, was a powerful aid in remembering.

Gozaburo’s demands hadn’t seemed unreasonable.

Seto had known, in the beginning, that it would be difficult. But asking permission for things — food, water, sleep — was how the orphanage had operated as well. While there were no locks forbidding him or Mokuba from sneaking an extra snack, the threat hung in the air more clearly than a padlock would have.

In Gozaburo’s house everything was _earned_ , nothing was taken for granted.

—

He ignored the email from Klara Kasparov, it was another pseudonym, of course. Ever since the Queen’s Gambit email Seto ignored all correspondences from the person who couldn’t seem to string together a coherent sentence but continued to send chess openings and unsolved ciphers via email and paper mail. He had only made one inquiry to the mail room, but they hadn’t seen anything unusual either.

A puzzle.

Seto hadn’t mentioned it to Mokuba, but his brother had good instincts. He had waited up for his brother on Thursday night — it was their night. A standing agreement where Seto would come home by dinner, or if he couldn’t by seven and no later. They would have dinner and either a game or a movie and Seto would finish up his work at home. It usually took at least until midnight, because if he brought a project home he knew he wouldn’t sleep until it was finished. Old habits died hard.

“Nii-sama.” Mokuba entered the home office at five before midnight, banking on his brother being done with work by now.

“Mokuba, you should be in bed.” Seto pointed out but didn’t demand he leave. Mokuba wasn’t in junior high school anymore, and Seto strongly believed in responsibility. If Mokuba wanted to screw up his sleeping schedule and pay for it in class the next day it wasn’t on Seto to force him to do anything.

“We need to talk.” Mokuba shut the door behind him, even if there was no one else in the house. Both brothers appreciated gestures of privacy. Over the years they had come to a more level understanding of each other. Or maybe it was teenager rebellion. Either way, Mokuba’s hero worship had turned into confrontational mother henning, something that continued to surprise Seto on a daily basis.

“If it’s about my work habits, we’ve had the conversation before.” Seto stated plainly. His annoyance would be plain on his face, but without the bite that was reserved for everyone not Mokuba.

“Something’s up. You’re obsessed with something again. Is it a new game?” Mokuba knew it wasn’t, but he had left the out for Seto to take if he wanted. When Seto became involved in a new project or idea he always gained a frenetic energy — something the office workers, secretly, called a perfect storm for the way it effected Seto. He would, in some ways, become less iron fisted about how the day to day goings at Kaiba Corp but more intense about everything else.

“No, it’s not a new game.” 

“Then what?”

“It’s not of any consequence.” Seto shut his laptop and stood. He no longer had the impressive height advantage against Mokuba, his little brother stood at his shoulder now. “I’m going to bed, Mokuba, I expect you to also get some sleep.”

“You look like you’ve found another rival.” Mokuba didn’t protest his brother’s leaving, but he blurted out his thoughts. “It’s been a really long time — years! — since you’ve looked this way. Are you embarrassed? It’s not Yuugi again, is it?”

Seto didn’t answer and left the office. Mokuba wouldn’t press him, not tonight. Bringing up Yuugi had been a low blow, but he was also the last person who had given Seto Kaiba any amount of _real_ challenge. 

In some ways, he figured, Mokuba must be pleased by the development. If Seto did have a new rival it meant he would stop working such long hours. In the way that only someone who spent exceptional amounts of time with Seto, Mokuba knew what his brother craved. Competition. An enemy. A target. Mokuba, along with a few of Seto’s close staff, knew the difference between Seto’s smug arrogance and smug arrogance fueled by rivalry.

What Mokuba didn’t know was that craving and necessity were not the same and that the closely guarded secrets of Gozaburo’s teachings were still tightly branded around his brother’s heart. 

—

He didn’t need to say it. Gozaburo cut a small sliver out of his steak, stabbed it with his fork and then ate it. Across the table from him Seto hadn’t touched his dinner. The only household servants that dared enter the room were servers, swooping in to refill the water and wine glasses. The Kaiba family — father and son act — arguments were reaching legendary heights as Seto grew older.

Everything you are, I made, boy.

That’s what Gozaburo’s gestures said. The calm that Gozaburo wore emphasized the sentiment. He was untouchable. Seto didn’t believe in father worship anymore than Gozaburo believed in the tooth fairy, but Seto believed in power. He believed in power earned, power won and power used.

“Have you tired of this game yet?” Gozaburo asked, calm, still. It hadn’t been a coincidence. Even though Gozaburo hated games, thought them a waste of time and money, he hadn’t missed the way Seto keyed into them. The way Seto would master and defeat any game set in front of him. It hadn’t been a big matter to change chess into war, monopoly into investment and scrabble into business speeches. He knew Seto thought that he could win this game, had been playing since Gozaburo adopted him.

Gozaburo knew this: Seto was wrong.

“We don’t play _games._ ” Seto’s anger always worked against him in these moments. He spat the words out, contempt showing easily.

“You just lost a contract.” It wasn’t a real contract, of course. But Gozaburo would insert these teaching lessons into their conversations. When Seto was angry, Gozaburo would remind him that every conversation could be a business contract. When Seto showed weakness, Gozaburo reminded him that weaknesses were meant to be exploited. Gozaburo was building an heir, not raising a child.

It had the desired effect. Seto’s face twisted into more open fury before he calmed down. The only sign of his rage was in how he still wasn’t eating.

“May I be excused?” Seto asked.

“Finish your dinner.” It was such a mundane comment, one that would have been expected from a father. It struck Seto like a punch. He stood up, losing to his fury yet again.

“ _Sit down._ ” Gozaburo didn’t need to yell, he had long ago learned how to put pressure into his voice. “Begging to be excused, is it? That’s pathetic.”

Seto didn’t sit. Gozaburo continued eating. They both knew how this would play out. Seto would sit and eat dinner. Gozaburo would refuse to excuse him for another hour, even when he was done eating. It was a show of power and a show of obedience for them both. If Gozaburo was feeling particularly spiteful he might ask Seto to perform some kind of odd task — rearranging silverware, clearing the table, doing the dishes. These tasks were a test of obedience and spirit. For Seto it was a careful exercise in obeying his father and showing that he wasn’t weak. 

The servants were not surprised, when they finally went to clear the table, to find that it had been cleaned almost perfectly. The only exception was a steak knife, buried two inches into the table where Gozaburo had been seated.

—

A reporter had once asked Seto Kaiba about his _stepfather_. He had replied, with more steel in his voice than he had intended: _My father._ Later, when asked, he would clarify that Gozaburo Kaiba was not his father through marriage, so he could not be his stepfather. Seto disliked inaccuracies, it smelled too much like shirked responsibilities to distance himself from Gozaburo as well.

He told himself, repeatedly, that he didn’t think of Gozaburo Kaiba as his father. He had said it out loud, the day after Gozaburo had flung himself through the window onto the pavement below. _That man is not my father._ But even he had noticed the present tense in the statement.

Is.

—

Seto and Mokuba didn’t sit across from each other during meals, they sat on the same side of the table. Part of that was because Seto had the irritating (according to Mokuba) habit of bringing his laptop or tablet or some other report to the table to browse while eating. The other reason neither brother would mention — but they ate together so infrequently that it seemed traitorous to sit on opposite sides.

The morning after Seto had furiously deleted all of the emails from the mystery sender, however, he sat down at the table without thinking, without his laptop and without any sleep from the night before. He found himself staring into Mokuba’s wide eyes.

Seto then stood and meandered into the kitchen, as if he had meant to do that, only to return with a cup of coffee and re-seating himself, at his brother’s side.

“Let’s take a vacation, nii-sama.” Mokuba chewed through his cereal with deceptive innocence. “What about New York?”

“I don’t have time to take vacations.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“Mokuba.” Seto peered at the bottom of his coffee cup, as if it was the cup’s fault that he had finished the coffee already. “We can’t just irresponsibly take vacations with no notice.”

“Okay, let’s plan to take one next month then.” Mokuba persisted.

“. . . you’re just trying to get out of school.”

“I am not!”

“I’ll take vacation during your summer break, how about that?” Seto continued, as if Mokuba hadn’t interjected.

“That’s _months_ away,” it wasn’t whined, but Mokuba’s protests were made clear. “How about just the weekend? You need to stop working Saturdays anyway.”

Seto put the cup back down on the table. He could easily clear Saturday’s schedule, it was all optional work for him anyway. Annoyance filled him, an overwhelming sense that there was no reason why he _should_ take vacation. He should just work. Idiots were everywhere, especially in his own company. Mokuba was old enough to look after himself. Seto had better things to do. Kaiba Corp’s reputation was still not the best, Seto’s own had always been tenuous —

He picked up the cup again. Then set it down again.

In the back of his mind he heard his own sneering voice. What a waste of time. What utter foolishness. Useless. Useless Useless —

“This weekend sounds great.” He said. Mokuba grinned.

—

Gozaburo didn’t allow them to have pets. Seto didn’t want one anyway, he was already too aware of what would happen if they were gifted one. Mokuba desperately wanted a puppy, or a cat, or even a goldfish. Sometimes he told Seto he wanted a horse. Sometimes he said, wouldn’t it be nice if we had a pet snake? Seto had laughed at that, imagining a boa constrictor slowly strangling the life out of Gozaburo. He didn’t share that thought with Mokuba.

He was allowed to pick out a horse, if he wanted. Seto had declined, worried it would take more time away from his studies. He counter offered — instead of a useless animal, how about weapons lessons? Somehow, it had been the correct decision to make. Gozaburo had even made a sound of approval.

That sound, a half-hummed affirmative supporting his rejection of the possible _gift_ , would sit between Seto’s ears for the rest of his life. It would make him second guess himself, before trying to kill Mokuba at Death T and it would be the sound ringing in his mind at Alcatraz. But on that day it had only sent a flush of pride through him. He’d made the correct move. Not too sentimental, obedient but not weak.

“Men used to wage war on horses.” Gozaburo gestured to the racing ring. The small jockeys on the horses’ backs, arched and looking ready to spring like fleas didn’t appeal to him — he’d said as much when they arrived. “Now we have far better machines.”

Seto bit back _horses aren’t machines, they’re animals._ He had been at the receiving end of the lecture often enough. Soldiers, once on foot in phalanxes, then in rows during wars where bayonets were useful, then on horses, then in tanks. The machines of war would continue to evolve, because humanity’s purpose was to perfect killing each other. Well, that or profiting from it.

It hadn’t taken Gozaburo long to see where Seto’s passion was. He had thought to tempt him first with grand scale warfare. _The game of a century_ he’d sneered, picking on Seto’s favorite past time, and gone over World War I and II. It hadn’t been so easy. Seto had dutifully memorized the material but there was none of the challenge that made an heir truly an heir to a company like Kaiba Corp. The way that Seto keyed into names, though and Gozaburo seized that like he would any weakness.

“Wars aren’t just about nations, boy.” Gozaburo had placed a heavy hand on Seto’s shoulder as they left the racing ring. “Wars are also about victors.”

—

The next email he received carried no cipher and no chess move. It was not from Ruy Lopez, but Seto had no doubt that it was related. It had simply contained a question:

Do you remember your father?

—

Seto was irritated all through the weekend. Mokuba tracked his brother’s tense posture from Friday to Monday. Even his best attempts to lighten the mood had ended with Seto’s forced neutral face — it was better than his aggressive fury but it sat poorly with Mokuba. Something was wrong with his brother and Seto wasn’t talking about it.

“You were supposed to relax.” Mokuba said with a sigh on their drive back. _He_ had had fun, the beach was nice, the cove they owned was private and remote. It was a good place to go hiking, something they usually did together, but Mokuba had gone alone this time. Seto had spent too much time on the shore, often standing and staring out at the ocean.

“I did relax.” Seto replied.

“You didn’t, even though you were at the beach you were thinking about something. It’s that whole. . .” Mokuba didn’t know, actually. “You didn’t even go hiking.” That was an accusation.

“Are you doing all right at school?” Seto countered. “You went hiking anyway, are there things on your mind? Don’t hide them from me.”

Mokuba stayed silent at that for a moment. He looked out the window and chewed on his bottom lip. Just as he knew something was off with Seto, his brother knew the reverse.

“My grades aren’t as good as yours.” Mokuba finally admitted.

What a waste of time. School’s useless anyway. What’s the point?

Seto made a noncommittal noise, giving Mokuba room to say more if he wanted.

“And I hate them. I hate my classmates.” Mokuba was scowling, Seto could hear it in his voice. “They’re so — so _dumb!_ ”

“Do you want to transfer schools?” They could do it, easily. Mokuba could go to any school he wanted. “Or be home schooled, but we’ve had that discussion.” Seto disliked home tutors, since he had taken over Kaiba Corp he had all but banned them from the mansion. He would allow them, if Mokuba wanted it, but it would no doubt be a point of contention.

“Why do I have to go to school anyway?” 

“Because you’re not old enough not to.”

“That’s a terrible reason.”

“Are you being bullied?” Seto accelerated a little, eyes fixed on the road. They were the only ones on this highway, and probably would be until they got closer to the city. “We can . . . set up a conference, if it’s necessary.” He had read the school hand outs and done his research. Parent-teacher conferences and disciplinary action could be taken. 

“No! I just. . . It’s dumb, they’re stupid, everything is boring and awful.” Mokuba grumbled.

Seto almost smiled. He could hear something very normal in Mokuba’s voice, something that he’d heard all through his own high school years. Not from himself, of course, his complaints had been more like Mokuba’s in wording but carried a more poisonous tone. He had, truly, hated everyone. Worthless idiots who’s only job it seemed was to provide him with minuscule obstacles. Things not even worth his attention.

“Sometimes school is a pain.” He said instead. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Mokuba smiled. They continued the drive. When they got home Seto turned the conversation over in his head. It was such a small, stupid thing, part of him whispered. Who cares? Mokuba should man up. But a much louder part of him said: why didn’t you ask if he has any friends?

—

He didn’t have to be told not to _mingle_. Seto had already gained disdain for other people before he became Gozaburo’s charge. It was only a few steps to the left for him to understand that other people were just pieces on the board to move. Gozaburo didn’t instruct Seto on hostile takeovers, he lived them and gave the boy the _privilege_ of watching.

Seto’s first outing as Gozaburo’s heir — in the society that _mattered_ as Gozaburo put it., Seto had translated that to society of rich murderers — had been embarrassing. Seto wasn’t a shy child but he was painfully awkward and had a softness to his stance and voice that was perfect fodder to be teased. At the orphanage it had come off as hesitant, until Seto had put them in their place, but as Gozaburo had said, there weren’t second chances with people like this. Seto had said all the right things, but he hadn’t been confident about them. He thought he had everyone fooled, but after the party Gozaburo called him to the home office.

“You’re useless.” Gozaburo said, it was a fact. There was hardly any malice in it, but Seto flinched. “Stop flinching, boy. If you’re going to be my heir you need to be assertive. Apologize.”

It always came in twos like that. An insult and a demand. The need to be both confident and subservient. Someone to be used by Gozaburo but not a weakling.

“I performed my duty as I was instructed, but I’m sorry that it didn’t live up to your expectations.” Seto ground out. He was tired. The party had gone on well into the night. He wondered why Gozaburo wasn’t tired.

“That’s a weakling’s apology, you can do better. Man up, Seto! You’re an embarrassment to my name.” Gozaburo emphasized his words by pounding a fist on the desk. Seto steeled his backbone, refused to startle and fixed his eyes on his stepfather.

“I’m _so sorry_ that I disappointed you, oh great _father_.” Seto’s temper rose and he hissed the words. He expected to be hit for it. Gozaburo didn’t tolerate insolence anymore than he tolerated weakness. Instead Gozaburo turned to the window, lit his cigar and took a full minute of silence before responding.

“Your spirit is good, boy. Never backing down is a trait you should keep, but a clever general knows when to take his blows and when to strike. Victory is your end goal, don’t forget.”

The praise warmed Seto. He couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that crossed his face, even for an instant.

“But I don’t tolerate being sassed, especially by a child who has embarrassed me tonight. You’re lucky that I don’t turn you and your brother to the wild dogs for that stunt you pulled.” As much as Seto searched his memory he couldn’t pinpoint what Gozaburo was referring to. He wanted to ask, but was sure that it would be met with mockery — after all, the true Kaiba heir would know immediately, wouldn’t he?

“I’m sorry I’m an embarrassment.” Seto said softly, genuinely. The praise that had left him feeling steady evaporated and left him almost trembling. “Sir.” He added, belatedly.

“I want you to learn this lesson, do you understand me, Seto?” Gozaburo was moving around the large desk that dominated the home office room now. Even if his words weren’t threatening, his presence was. “Everything you are is because of me. Cast off the weak remains of your previous life, you’re a Kaiba now.”

“Yes, sir.” Seto wanted to wilt under the pressure of his father’s presence. He wanted to hunch his shoulders or sink to the floor. Instead he straightened, shoulders back and met him with his best icy look of indifference. He conjured up false pride, trying to recall what it had felt like when he was praised. He couldn’t help but cry out, though, when the switch caught him under his chin, leaving a vicious welt.

Lessons were best learned with pain.

—

Seto opened the email with the subject “Sarwer versus Waitzkin” with annoyance. It was most likely further annoyances from his apparent cryptically insane stalker. He hadn’t replied to any of the emails, and from the last one he read (Do you remember your father?) deleted every one he got for a month. This one again contained a single question:

Seto?

Instead of deleting it he replied. It was a good enough of a mystery that it intrigued him, and the familiarity of someone taking pot shots at him — since, what else would a question about _fathers_ be? — opened aggressive curiosity in him. He replied with a question of his own.

What?

The replying email came immediately, almost before the send icon had finished a single loading loop.

I need to talk to you. - nk

Furious, he shut down his computer. And then unplugged it. That would explain why the mailroom staff hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. There was enough autoprocessing in-house that it would be simple to print out a letter, seal it and have it delivered to his office. That also explained the random string of emails, trying to get his attention. Noa didn’t have a mind of chess, Seto had figured that out rather quickly during their little visit to Noa’s virtual world. Beyond that — well, it had been obvious. Seto was everything that Noa was not. Not everything. They were both Gozaburo Kaiba’s sons, after all.

His anger didn’t explain the aching void he felt, though.

—

“This is Seto, my son.” Gozaburo introduced Seto to his newest business acquaintance. Seto didn’t even incline his head, there was no respect as he held out his hand for the customary shake.

“A pleasure.” Seto said.

“Boy doesn’t take after you, Gozaburo.” Quentin Irving, who was working on a patent to manufacture bulletproof backpacks for elementary schools in America, commented dryly. “He does have a firm handshake though. You’ll go far, boy.”

“He’s adopted.” There was distance in Gozaburo’s voice at that. And then there was the faint praise, “But you’d be surprised, he’s earned his place here tonight.”

Seto kept the sneer from marring his expression, choosing instead to offer a sharp smile to Mr. Irving. “I owe everything to my father.”

“That’s the bond of father and son! If only my son was so affectionate. The last time I took him to one of these parties he got absolutely sloshed.” Quentin seemed to miss the chill between father and son, or he chose to ignore it. 

Seto spent the rest of the evening pushing down any feelings of _belonging_. It was mixed with the desperate need to beat his father, of course. There could only be one victor in their little war. But the comment haunted him, _he’s earned his place_. It was, almost as sweet as winning.

—

Seto

Seto

Seto I need to talk to you

Seto

Please

After checking — _purging_ — the Kaiba Corp mainframe for a week and finding it satisfactory that apparently Noa was only situated in _his_ computer, Seto finally replied to the stack of emails.

What are you doing here? Be quick or I’ll yank you out and delete you forever.

Noa’s reply was lighting fast.

I’m disappearing anyway. Seto. Nxf6 Bxf6 5. Kxf6 Nd7+ 6. Kf5 Nxe5 7. Kxe5?? Are you paying attention? Do you remember your father?

Then hurry up and disappear forever. He typed those words, but deleted them. Mokuba had cried for Noa, in a weak, childish plaintive way — Seto shook the thoughts from his head, and replied:

Yes. What do you want?

Did he love you? My father my father h5 a4 9. h6 a3 10. h7 a2 11. h8=Q my father loved me. Do you remember him? Seto

Noa’s response was slower this time. Seto calculated the days since he had received the first transcription. There was no such thing as a cyber half-life, not in the same sense as radioactive elements, but Noa had never simply been code. The human mind degenerated over time, neurons ceased to fire rapidly and memory would wash away to nothing. People left the world as they entered it, helpless.

I remember Gozaburo.

It was almost forty minutes before Noa replied again. Seto wondered if purging any remnants of Noa from the rest of the computer systems had somehow accelerated Noa’s death. As if a ghost could be killed.

WRGOABABD ~~MLIAOI~~ WTBIMPANETP MLIABOAIAQC ITTMTSAMSTGAB  
Was he proud of me?

And then another email, before Seto could reply.

Did you kill him? Did he love me? Seto do you remember your father?

He gave the only response he could: I killed him. The email he received in response had snippets from articles about Gozaburo — the ones that praised his generosity, that called his business skill true genius, that lauded his technological prowess. Then there was a bunch of gibberish code. The ghost of Noa was nothing more than assorted strings of information and phrases. In another few days, if not hours, Seto suspected he would cease to exist entirely. He’d wasted enough time on backwash of the dead already.

Seto deleted the emails.


	2. Chapter 2

Mokuba wasn’t a child of absolute truths. He had been taught by Seto that the truth was usually a matter of usefulness. Gravity was a concept that worked and adhered and science could continue to function with it, therefore it was true. It did not mean that gravity was the end all to everything and there could very well be something that explained the world even better than gravity, but until then it was the truth.

This kind of logic worked great in theory and really terrible in practice. That was another thing Mokuba knew. It was far too easy to tip the scales in one direction, to run down the path of a certain truth and have everything collapse underneath its own weight.

In a way, Death T was going to be true. A true answer. In black irony, the question had been, “Can a war machine become a toy company?” Or, “How many bodies does it take to build a rollercoaster?” Seto would know the exact number. Mokuba did not. Seto had once made the quip himself — leaned back in his chair, eyes wide with sleeplessness and visions of Duel Monsters killing him — “After all, losers deserve death, don’t they? Or at least, a taste of it.” And then he had laughed.

Mokuba hadn’t heard his brother laugh much, in several years. Even the slightly off, too loud, laughter he had given was new. When Seto had ascended as the heir of Kaiba Corp he had done so with steady calm. Polite smiles if needed. A little swagger, as their new father had taught him. The kind of soft mocking laughs that were expected around corporate tables wasn’t _really_ laughter. Even at Duel Monsters tournaments — new privileges and rewards that Seto seemed to bask in — he hadn’t laughed.

The truth was, this made his brother laugh. They were doing okay.

—

School was hideous. Mokuba had decided that he never wanted to go to high school ever again. The first year hadn’t been so bad, but the second was awful. He was easily the smartest kid in every class — but not necessarily the most hardworking. Other kids knew his name _Kaiba_ and seemed to interact with him based mostly on that. Mokuba wished he was at the office with his brother, or helping Seto run a tournament or even almost dying. 

Anywhere but Geometry.

There was another thirty minutes to go and he thought he was going to die. He watched the girl next to him text a friend under her desk. She smiled and laughed under her breath before pretending to take notes. Mokuba considered texting someone but the only person he could think of was his brother. It was 10.30am, Seto was probably in a meeting.

Behind him, a boy laughed. Mokuba didn’t know what it was about, but he couldn’t help but feel that the boy was laughing _at_ him. Like the boy knew that Mokuba didn’t have someone to secretly text during class. Or that the boy knew that Mokuba still slept with stuffed animals. Or that Mokuba still had nightmares (Death T, Pegasus — _nii-sama_ — did it matter?) and had to crawl into his big brother’s bed at night to make them stop.

He didn’t regret it at all, when he stormed out of class.

—

No one ever told Mokuba that his big brother was a good kid. When they were sent to the orphanage their relatives had said, fingers pointing at Seto, that he was a selfish brat and this is what he got for it. Years later, Mokuba would ask about it, what had that been about? It didn’t seem like his memory of the event could be accurate. After all, his nii-sama wasn’t a selfish brat at all. His brother had simply said that they were angry and angry people said stupid things. Mokuba hadn’t asked again, knowing a non-answer when he saw one.

At the orphanage, Mokuba was the good kid. He was cute and small and young enough to maybe get adopted someday — the matron would say with a smile. Then she would turn and lock the cabinets and the refrigerator and herd everyone outside.

Mokuba’s first lesson at the orphanage was to not ask for things. He’d asked Seto for a glass of milk once, but it was in the afternoon. The locks stayed on the refrigerator except for the thirty minutes it took to make breakfast, lunch and dinner. In twenty-minutes Seto had gone and gotten Mokuba a glass of milk. No one would have known except they didn’t know where to put the glass after Mokuba was done with it, and their attempt to bury it in the sand had been thwarted by another kid at the orphanage. 

It was the first time they had been apart, when Seto had been punished for the milk trick. All of the bad kids went to the dark room, by themselves. It had been the worst night of Mokuba’s life to date, only made better by his brother the next morning, and Seto’s promise to take him to the park that afternoon. Mokuba hadn’t hated the orphanage, because his brother still smiled and they could spend lots of time together. Even when Seto got sent to the dark room, which he did often, they still had their days.

Mokuba’s second lesson at the orphanage was understanding which of Seto’s determined faces were stubbornness and which ones were infexible.

—

“Can’t I quit school and just be the vice president.” Mokuba asked. He lounged on the couch in Seto’s home office and looked over at his brother with what he hoped were pleading eyes. Seto didn’t look up from his typing, only pausing to click on something with his mouse.

“No.”

“Why not? _You_ didn’t finish high school.” On second thought, Mokuba sat up and accused, “Right?” It didn’t seem like it was likely that Seto could have, not with the penalty game and then Duelist Kingdom and then . . .

Seto stopped typing, which was a good sign. Then he started again, an irritable sigh escaping him.

“I took an equivalency exam, on the date which I was supposed to graduate. If you want to do that, then I can’t stop you, however, I believe there are some holes in your studies. Geometry, perhaps?” Mokuba had the feeling that his brother had been thinking of a way to bridge the subject all morning.

“I couldn’t take it anymore! It’s so _boring!_ You didn’t have to sit through geometry.”

“I would hope that we could avoid my past mistakes.” Seto’s voice was dry, as it often was when he shared a small self-deprecating analysis with Mokuba. It was an old trick for them. If Mokuba didn’t protest the comments then Seto would share more. They kept a careful balance, but it let Seto look at his life without feeling like he’d failed Mokuba. Or, well, that’s what Mokuba figured. He spent a lot of time thinking about his brother. “Is this a. . . friends. . . issue?” The word sounded off in Seto’s voice, and the noticeable pause around it only served to make it sound even weirder.

“I bet they think I don’t have any friends.” Mokuba said aggressively. He flopped back down on the couch. “But I have _you_ and Jounouchi and Yuugi and. . .”

“Any friends. . . your own age?” Seto’s voice gained a little confidence. Not that the average person would have been able to pick out the intricacies of Mokuba’s brother’s moods in his voice. The slight pauses and brisk coldness were hesitance or confusion. Manic laughter was aggressive posturing and glee laced with loathing or rage.

“Who needs them!” 

Seto stopped typing again. Mokuba looked over to see his brother’s frown, it was small and thoughtful. It wasn’t a disapproving frown but the kind of face that Seto wore when he was working on a glitch in a program or a flaw in a design.

“Mokuba,” Seto started. Then stopped again. He clicked a few things on his computer and then to Mokuba’s complete shock, seemed to turn it off. “I don’t have the right answer for this.” It was an odd admission. Mokuba twisted on the couch to look at his brother, upside down.

“I mean it, nii-sama. I don’t _like_ anyone that I’ve met. They’re all so . . . simple! Stupid. Rude. I bet they laugh at me behind my back.”

This time Seto’s frown was disapproving, but not at Mokuba. Mokuba watched, a little confused though that might have been from his upside down position on the couch. He was sure that Seto was going to tell him to take his feet off the wall, but instead Seto’s hands folded together and there was a soft _thwap_ noise that was hidden by his desk.

“Do you want to talk about it? If you’re really unhappy, we can do something about it.” Seto moved around the desk to sit on the couch next to Mokuba. Absently, he added. “Feet off the wall.”

Mokuba rolled over, and sat up properly.

“I just want it to be easier.” He said.

—

Mokuba’s first friend had been a reedy looking kid that played Capsule Monster Chess. They had hit it off right away and they both played with the same style. Domination. Mokuba knew that the kid — Ichirou — was an older brother, but his little brother was barely old enough to walk. Ichirou and Mokuba would talk about how little kids were gross sometimes. Who liked babies?

Ichirou’s biggest treasure was a small switchblade he got from his uncle. It had a black handle and made a satisfyingly intimidating noise when the blade popped out. Mokuba scoffed, even though he envied the blade and asked his brother for an even longer one — one with a cool sheath. Seto hadn’t even hesitated, digging into their recently deceased father’s drawer to pull out two. Pick one, Mokuba. 

There had been a slight tension to Seto’s voice then, but everything in Gozaburo’s old office seemed to make Seto tense up. _I haven’t claimed it as mine yet._ Seto had muttered, pulled down the expensive art, turned the desk in the opposite direction, smashed an expensive looking paperweight on the floor. He’d torn through the office while Mokuba clasped the handle of the knife with both hands, looking all at once not like Mokuba’s brother at all.

But, he had given Mokuba a gift. And no one had yelled at them, or scolded them for it. Seto wasn’t going to get punished for it or sent to the dark room. No one could send either of them to the dark room. Seto _owned_ everything in this building.

They would be okay, he thought.

—

He wasn’t _spying_ on Seto. He was just pretending to do his homework while watching his brother. If Seto cared he would tell Mokuba to stop. That was what Mokuba decided, anyway. 

He watched his brother click, scroll, narrow his eyes, click again. Occasionally Seto would reach out and grab the metal ruler off of his desk. There was a soft _thwap_ hidden by the monitor. Then Seto would click, scroll, scroll, click.

After thirty minutes Mokuba spoke up: “Can I transfer schools?”

“I was already looking at replacement schools.” Seto sounded pleased with himself. 

“No fair! How did you know?” Mokuba closed his math book and walked over to the desk. On the screen was several different windows. More windows than one person should have open, even on a machine that could handle Seto’s workload.

“I guessed. You might like an alternative school better, I hear they’re less boring.” Seto mused. He reached for the metal ruler again, tapped it on the desk. “Not a bad investment, really.”

“Scouting?” Mokuba grinned.

“ _You_ will be attending class.” But Seto flashed him a small, but predatory, smile.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing was, Seto didn’t dream of Egypt.

—

Gozaburo had a lot of rules. Some of them were simple. Work was finished on time, no exceptions. Failures led to punishments. Perfection was necessary. There was no curfew or bedtime, but any _wasteful_ activities could be, and would be, eliminated.

Some rules were hidden. Gozaburo had a vast library, with every kind of book imaginable in it. Seto was allowed to read anything he wished in his free time — as long as Gozaburo approved of it. But that was guesswork. If Seto read something that Gozaburo did _not_ approve of then he would be punished. Sometimes it was the switch, across the back of his hands with a delicate _thwip_ noise. Sometimes it was to his cheek, or his neck, leaving a welt that stung the entire day. Sometimes it was left to Seto’s tutor at the time — a tall thin man who knew how to torture people but nothing about literature. Once, when Seto had picked out a book of fairy tales for Mokuba, and then read them to make sure they weren’t the original fairy tales, with bloody red hot slippers and cut open wolves (he was certain Mokuba wasn’t old enough for those), the tutor made Seto eat the book, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. His gut protested for an entire week. He did not make that mistake again.

Another rule was the collar. It had been new, on his eleventh birthday — or then around. Gozaburo didn’t celebrate birthdays he had _milestone_ parties. Parties that were there to commemorate something _earned_. But it had been late fall when Gozaburo had fastened it around his neck one night.

“You’ve earned this.” The man sneered. “The symbol of a dog, for a mediocre stray mutt like you.” But then he had slid his fingers through Seto’s hair, almost affectionately. “You can do better, so prove it to me.”

It was worse than a tool of punishment or a symbol of humiliation — it was a challenge. It made sense, at the time. Seto understood it. Of course he could do better than the work he produced. Gozaburo was cruel but he wasn’t unfair, right? This was just another game, and all Seto had to do was win.

First, it was simple. If he did his work on time, the collar was removed. If he was too slow, the collar was chained to the desk and he wasn’t allowed to leave until his work was complete. But then the rules changed. The deadlines were moved up. More work was added. Sometimes Seto would spend days with the collar tightened around his neck, looking for the task or level of achievement that would please Gozaburo so that it was removed. It became a familiar weight, reminding him that he had tasks to complete.

—

“My new school is great, nii-sama! And I even picked out a few candidates already.” Mokuba grinned as he dug into his breakfast. Seto made a vaguely affirmative noise, buried in a report on Kaiba Corp stock and a mug of coffee.

“How many?” He asked, a few seconds later.

“Three so far, but I bet there will be more. Did you know, we can leave class whenever we feel bored! But weirdly since we can leave, I almost never do.” Mokuba laughed. “The teachers are all really nice.”

Seto squinted at the report. He put it down and rotated in his chair so he could look at his brother.

“Have you made any friends?” It had been written into his mental planner to ask. Mokuba had started the new semester at his new school — two weeks ago. Seto figured that was plenty of time for friendships to start . . . blossoming. Or whatever it was that friendships did. His own experience was mostly limited to irritating people trying to insult him or tell him things he already knew. The honest truth was, as well, that Seto didn’t particularly feel like friends were valuable. But Mokuba was a sociable kid and a _friendly_ kid. And a small part of Seto could gauge how good an idea was by how unlike Seto (Gozaburo) it was.

“A few. I got invited to a birthday party.” 

Seto nodded and went back to reading his report. That sounded positive. Kids loved birthday parties.

“Nii-sama, do _you_ have any friends?” Mokuba filled the silence with a question of his own. “I know that we’re different people, but it feels weird to go off to a party and leave you all by yourself.”

Seto would be much more comfortable if Mokuba’s teenage rebellion was shouting matches instead of odd blunt statements of compassion. Mokuba had _always_ been affectionate, even when Seto stopped hugging him back, but these kinds of conversations had a way of making Seto feel inadequate as an older brother. It was _his_ job to look out for Mokuba, not the other way around. A small, nasty, voice in the back of his head would whisper too — shut up, shut the brat up, tell him to stop asking useless stupid questions. 

“People irritate me, Mokuba.” Seto finished his coffee and stood. “I have everything I need, already.”

That used to reassure Mokuba. It had been a grounding statement for Seto for years, so he didn’t even look at his brother’s face when he replied, moving for the door. Seto missed Mokuba’s small frown and the way his hands wrapped around the locket around his neck, finding comfort in the old photo of Seto smiling.

—

Seto didn’t dream of Egypt.

“For the first and last time, I will rebel.”

Instead, Seto dreamed about obedience. He dreamed about a young man (not himself) on his knees beside his father (not _his_ father) obeying. He (not himself) fastened a collar around his own neck and tightened it. Tightened it and tightened it and begged for his father (not his father) to approve.

He dreamed about reams of math problems. The velocity of a bullet traveling through an air vacuum fired from a gun in Washington D.C. A bullet fired from a gun in Tokyo. A rain of bullets, each with their own mass and speed and target. How many children would be killed if a man in Seoul discharged a bomb in his shoe when he boarded a school bus? How many women in France would die if a man in Iceland released a biochemical weapon that caused nerve damage and took months to kill its victims slowly?

Seto did not have nightmares.

He dreamed about a place in the desert where a father (not his father) strangled his son. The father strangled his own son and then cut open his chest and poured liquid gold inside. My son, the future king.

His tutor frequented his dreams, all of his tutors did. Some of them had become monsters and when they were monstrous, he was in control. He could tell them who to kill and who to torture. If he wanted, they would even turn on his (yes, his) father and rip him to shreds. Sometimes, he dreamed of torturing his father himself, tightening the dog’s collar around his neck until he turned purple, or his head was cut off. Sometimes it was Seto who pushed his father into the window — not to make him fall to the pavement below but to shove glass into his back, into his face, to sever the tendons in his hands and make him useless and weak.

When his tutors were not monsters his dreams were unpleasant. The work was never done. The projects were failures. His tutors would not strike him with switches or riding crops but stick large needles through his hands, his face. He would bleed on his work and then it would never get done, would it? His (his?) father would encourage him, softly. His father would reassuringly rub his shoulders, even if they were slick with blood (it wasn’t his blood?).

How many dead babies did it take to build a cannon? Seto dreamed of violence. He dreamed his father told him to laugh and so he laughed. His father told him to drop a bomb on a school and so he did. His father told him to kill Mokuba and 

—

He was fourteen when he was no longer a dog. Fourteen and a half. It was summer when Gozaburo declared that Seto had defeated that ‘small test’. He threw a party and unveiled the new smart bomb Seto had designed as well.

It was monumental, especially since it had just been a year prior that Seto had demanded his work not be used to manufacture weapons. Gozaburo must have thought that three hundred days — all of them dedicated to giving Seto rewards and then stripping him of them — had been enough to break Seto’s idea of _ownership_.

“Just because you make something, it doesn’t mean that it’s truly yours.” Everyone laughed when Gozaburo began his speech. It must have been funny to all the businessmen who bought and sold weapons. Of course they didn’t own anything they bought, they were merely there to pull the cash value of it and let someone else use it to kill. “Everything in this world is earned. However, there comes a time when not only can you claim to be the genesis of something, but also the true owner. It’s with pride that today we’re celebrating my son’s achievement! The KCBOLT-88 is truly his.”

Everyone applauded politely. Someone whistled. Seto smiled, nicely. He built schematics in his head. Nano-guidance systems. Ones that were not water soluble and could be bottled under pressure. He would have to look up the pressure of a champagne bottle. Even distribution, so that someone did not end up with the bulk of them while another guest only got one or two. He built schematics for smart bombs that were designed to seek and destroy targets who said things like, “Way to go, my boy!” and “A chip off the old block, eh, Seto!” He designed a party where every guest was given a clue to what would kill them and the rules were that they could try to avoid it, but that everyone else would try to make them say the key phrase that would set off the bomb.

That would be a game worth playing, Seto thought as he shared dull conversation with people who would buy his new smart bomb, designed to shatter into invisible pieces that put up their own holographic camouflage to ambush soldiers on foot — even years after the bomb itself had detonated.

 _When I’m CEO, I will make them run like dogs._ Seto smiled.

—

The man reminded him of Gozaburo. Not in looks, where Gozaburo had been broad and sturdy, Trenton Wickerman was unassuming — even average. But it was the way that Wickerman carried himself, the same way which Seto carried himself, with purpose. Wickerman was at least as tall as Seto with a face that could not quite settle between boyish and chiseled. He smiled too readily, but he was also American.

“I’m glad you could meet with me, Mr. Kaiba.” They conducted their business in English. 

“It’s a mutually beneficial meeting.” Seto had been much more diplomatic, years ago. When he was Gozaburo’s heir he had smiled too readily as well. There was a plastic sheen that most businessmen employed. Politeness, smiles, pretending that they were all friends in a room where at least half of them would probably off the others with little or no argument. After he had almost lost Mokuba (almost lost Kaiba Corp) Seto changed how he did business. He did not need to be likable. He did not need to be friendly. He was the leader in his field and had been the leading genius in weapon design for years.

“I’m surprised, I heard that Kaiba Corp had become a toy company.” Wickerman continued casually. Seto did resist the urge to roll his eyes but he snorted. Entertainment. Kaiba Corp sold entertainment and happiness for children. Toys were an entirely different matter. Kaiba Corp sold _experiences_.

“Recent years have made several things to clear to me, and one of them is that you never forget your roots.” The smile he gave was not entirely false. Seto knew his teeth were showing. It was a far more openly challenging smile than would be advised to give during business meetings. But Wickerman was cut from the same cloth as Gozaburo — his response proved it. He laughed, loud and honest and leaned forward across the table. Wickerman’s fingers laced together, his voice became eager.

“You still hold the patents to every weapon Kaiba Corp once manufactured. I’ve had several buyers, just in the past week even, ask for weapons you once made. If you’re looking to step into your old shoes — well, I can’t say that they’ve been filled. Not just yet, anyway.”

Seto felt disappointment bubble up. He had been wrong. Wickerman wasn’t the same as Gozaburo. He wasn’t a leader. He wouldn’t be a challenge at all. All the grand schemes that Seto had for cutting a deal and then running Wickerman’s arm’s business into the ground evaporated. He would still do it, of course, but there was no need to engage with Wickerman personally to do it. It was a shame, he had been looking forward to it.

“This meeting is over.”


	4. Chapter 4

Seto had habits. Mokuba thought of them as evening rituals — but knew that his brother would have grimaced if he heard them referred to as that. One night Mokuba had stayed up all night, just to be privy to his brother’s _habits_.

During the day all of the curtains in the Kaiba mansion were left open. Before he left for the day the groundskeeper would close most of them, leaving only the ones in Mokuba’s room, Seto’s room, the home office and Seto’s old room open. When he finished work, it was rare that Seto worked past nine these days — unless it was by choice — Seto would close the remaining curtains. Mokuba’s first, often bidding him good night in the same breath. Then the home office, even if it was a backtrack from Mokuba’s room. Then his own and finally the ones in his old room.

Mokuba didn’t know why Seto bothered with that room. Neither of them brothers used it, and it was barren of everything except a desk. Seto had moved all the rest of furniture out of it. The night Mokuba had been spying Seto had lingered in the old room. Up on the staircase Mokuba could hear the curtains being drawn shut and Seto’s footsteps stilled. He couldn’t hear anything else, but it seemed like an eternity before Seto left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Occasionally Seto would eat after he closed the curtains. He didn’t need to turn on any additional lights — neither did Mokuba, but Mokuba didn’t make himself dinner in the dark. While it was possible that it was _only_ that night that Seto made himself a single fried egg on toast, Mokuba knew his brother better than that. Seto was habitual. The only thing that interrupted his daily rhythm was obsession. He didn’t need an alarm clock to wake at 4.45 every morning and at almost any given time during the day Mokuba could ask what time it was and Seto would be within five minutes. He just couldn’t see his brother eating every night either. In a way, the erratic nature of Seto’s sleep schedule and eating schedule were habits in themselves.

After that, Seto would go back to Mokuba’s room again — for a second good night. Mokuba had almost been caught, when he realized Seto’s path and wondered if he’d been discovered when Seto’s hand brushed through his hair.

Work used to keep Seto up. Then it was dreams of death. Then it was killing Yuugi. Then it was defeating Yuugi. These days, Mokuba didn’t know what it was. He knew Seto sometimes pulled all-nighters, doing optional work, inventing, rearranging furniture in the lesser used rooms of the mansions. One morning he’d come down to the living room to find Seto pushing the couch over to the entirely opposite corner and grinning fiercely. “He’d hate this.” Seto had said, by way of explanation. It was rare that those moods struck him, but Mokuba couldn’t help but like those nights better than the nights when Seto would shut himself away in another of the many rooms and seem to do nothing at all. When his brother was unnaturally still it was frightening. For as long as Mokuba had known him, which was all his life, Seto was always _doing_ something. Even if it was work, or reading, or studying or looking after Mokuba. (Except, that time, after Death T).

Seto was in the kitchen when Mokuba came down for breakfast. He was sitting on one of the tall stools by the island in front of the stove. A cup of coffee was cradled in one hand, but there were no reports, no phone, no tablet on the table next to it. Seto was just sitting there with an expression that even Mokuba couldn’t read.

“Let me get you a fresh coffee.” Mokuba offered, smiling.

“Thanks, Mokuba.” Seto replied, softly.

The coffee was cold. Seto stilled after he handed the mug over but it only lasted for a second. Then he was off the stool, moving towards the cabinet with purpose. “Let me do you one better, too, pancakes or waffles?” Seto asked, deftly picking out the ingredients he’d need for batter.

That was another of Seto’s habits too, he’d come to life around Mokuba.

—

Noa had been a god. In his own world he’d been a god. He’d been everything his father had asked for and more. If Noa wanted to he could have destroyed the entire world.

Once, just once, he’d tried to recreate his father. God could do things like that. But even as he set about pulling the code, the data he needed, he heard the whirr of a computer processor and felt the _fakeness_ of his world.

Noa had never been a god. He was a memory. 

His father loved him. He was sure of it. His father had loved him and given him things. His father had high expectations but his father was right to do such a thing, right? All fathers wanted the best for their children

his father was dead

his father had died

his father

Seto Kaiba owned Kaiba Corp. Seto Kaiba was not Noa’s brother, but they shared the same father.

Noa was dying. He didn’t remember dying the first time. He didn’t remember dying the second time. This time he could feel it. His thoughts wouldn’t cooperate. He wondered if this was helplessness. He wondered if this was how everyone felt when they died.

Seto had killed his father.

No

Noa wanted to talk to Seto about his father

About Noa’s father 

No about Seto’s father

did your father love you?

—

For the first time in years Seto had torn his office apart. Mokuba had decided to go to the office after school. He could do his homework in Seto’s office and it was nice to spend time together, even if they were both working. He had news for Seto anyway, about the scouting he was doing.

As soon as Mokuba entered the building he knew something was off. Working under Seto wasn’t _easy_ but Seto was usually fair, these days. When he had first taken over it had been rough. Gozaburo’s hiring and partners lingered for years. It was only recently that Seto’s purges of the Kaiba Corp employee listing seemed to have erased the last few smudges of scum. Working for Seto came with a great number of benefits though — Mokuba knew because Seto had run the employee benefits and payment schedules by him. Partly, Mokuba was sure, to show Mokuba how important he was. If he had to guess, Mokuba would say that the other half of the reason was because Seto was aware that his own estimate of how much work a human could complete in a day was skewed. On his worst days though Seto forgot.

The last time Mokuba had walked in on Seto berating someone on the phone with an angry and bewildered, “It’s a _simple day’s worth of work_ ,” in a voice that had promised blood.

This time, it was much worse, he figured by the way that the receptionist at the front desk almost fell over herself when she saw him. She was normally an extremely collected woman who had faced three bomb scares with barely a blink.

“Mokuba! Your brother’s on the warpath today.” She grimaced, cutting to the truth quickly and handed him a newspaper. “I think this is why, but no one’s actually been able to speak to him in . . . hours. He didn’t even call to cancel his appointments, but I shuffled them anyway.” Long stretches of silence usually ended with someone being fired, the longer the silence the more people were fired.

“Thanks! He’ll appreciate it when he’s . . . done.” Mokuba grinned, trying to be reassuring and took the elevator up. Once the door slid shut he frowned. Seto’s intense work rampages weren’t necessarily that bad. Usually his brother tended to demand too much at the office, not ignore responsibilities. He flicked open the paper, trying to find the article that might have caused Seto’s disarray. He ended up on Seto’s floor before he found it. The paper seemed normal to Mokuba, no mention of anything Kaiba. There had been a terrorist attack in a country which Mokuba couldn’t place on the map, there was political unrest in the French elections, a shooting in America.

Since Seto’s meetings had been cancelled Mokuba just pushed his brother’s office door open, not bothering to knock. Even if he did interrupt something important, Seto would forgive him.

The office was a mess. Seto seemed to have shoved everything off his desk and ripped all the framed pictures and articles — usually the ones praising Kaiba Corp, but he’d also put up the article that called him an unrepentant bastard — lay in a stack. Some of the glass was broken. Seto himself was seated on the floor, typing on a laptop as if he hadn’t destroyed his office.

“Nii-sama. . .” Mokuba tried to put reproach into his voice, but it came out as awed instead. He was not old enough to find it immature and not young enough to be horrified. Somehow it was almost funny. When coupled with the exasperated look Seto gave him, Mokuba cracked a smile.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” 

“School’s out for the day, nii-sama. Maybe if you hadn’t trashed the clock . . .” Mokuba nudged it with his foot. It had been an expensive gift from someone, a company that Kaiba Corp had bought, Seto had hated it. Mokuba wondered if that had been the first thing to get thrown.

“Hn.” Seto nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

“Your poor receptionist had a heart attack.” Mokuba continued. When that got no response he tried a different tactic. “And I’m worried, nii-sama.”

Seto continued typing, but he tilted his head to the side, to show he was listening.

“I’m doing better at school, now. And I didn’t give up! I mean, you wouldn’t let me just be a drop out, anyway, I think. . . but the last time the office looked this bad. . .”

“It takes a long time for weapons to lose their value.” Seto interrupted. “The popularity of knives is a testament to their staying power. Someone’s using Kaiba Corp weapons, still.” He sneered then. “Particularly, the ones _I_ made. While it’s obvious that mine would be in demand more than his, either someone has copied my design or there is a hidden cache. It’s unacceptable either way. My best work.” The last sentence was muttered under his breath.

Mokuba looked back at the paper. The terrorist attack. A bomb had gone off and when the first responders had rushed in to help victims a second assault of smaller bombs had gone off.

“KCBOLT-88.” Seto nodded. “That’s not what it was intended for, but I understand the use. It’s a perfect tool for that method of attack. If they think they can hide from me they’re idiots. But I don’t want that terrorist cell, or group or whatever little ragtag band has decided they need to use that. I need the seller.” He was talking mostly to himself. When Mokuba had been younger he’d loved the sound of Seto thinking through a problem. These days Mokuba wondered why Seto never said anything like ‘this upsets me’ or ‘I hate this’.

“You’ll get more work done sitting at the desk.” Mokuba said, after a while. 

Seto looked over at his desk and then slowly at the rest of the office. Then at Mokuba.

“Why don’t you help me clean up a bit and then we’ll go out.” Seto said abruptly. It was his way of apologizing to Mokuba. The kind of gesture he made when he wasn’t sure if he’d done something to frighten Mokuba.

“Only if I get to pick the place! Last time you picked that place with the gross chicken.” Mokuba had never been scared _of_ Seto. But often, he was scared _for_ Seto.

—

“Why didn’t you take my hand?” The voice was soft, but the hallway of the school was so quiet that Noa could hear his own breathing. The junior chess tournament was supposed to be Noa’s debut, but he’d lost in the first round. And his opponent had offered him a draw, five moves before he had moved himself into a corner for checkmate. _Then_ his opponent had the gall to stand before him and question him about it.

“What kind of fool takes half a victory when he could have had it all? You were lucky.” Noa sneered. The girl looked confused and she bit her lower lip.

“I wasn’t lucky, but you’re not very good. _Or_ very nice.” She finally decided to say and walked away from him. He scowled at her retreating — yes, she was retreating from him! — back. If he was less dignified he would have kicked a locker.

The truth was that Noa hadn’t seen the trap she’d laid at all. He couldn’t think that far ahead in chess. He wasn’t _stupid_ but the most he ever figured was three or four moves in advance. His chess tutor told him that his vision was too narrow but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d only wanted to be good at chess because his father was, but father wouldn’t want a rival anyway, right?

Gozaburo hadn’t lingered to console him after his loss, but Noa expected that. He’d lost. He’d made a fool of himself. His father was giving him a gift by staying away and staying silent. It was a kindness. Noa didn’t want to face his father yet, which is why he hadn’t left the hallway. If he listened he could hear the soft click of chess pieces being moved and the louder thunk of time clocks.

He decided, when he got home he would burn his chess books. Father would let him, probably.


	5. Chapter 5

“I did it to protect you.” Seto said, suddenly. Mokuba didn’t have to ask what it was — it could be anything, but there was only one thing that Seto would mention in a hushed almost reverent voice. Death T. It was also the only thing that threw a wrench into Seto’s (to Mokuba) perfect logic. “No. I wanted to say. . .” It was years after Death T, each time they talked about it Seto would bring it up abruptly and then trail off.

Mokuba was old enough, now, that he wasn’t going to just let it go.

“Nii-sama.” It had been the worst day in his life. The worst days in his life always revolved around Seto. “It’s okay, we can talk about it.”

He wanted to hear his brother say that he was sorry. He knew it wasn’t pride that kept Seto from saying those words. For the longest time it had simply been time. Things had been busy. There had been kidnappings. Seto’s obsessions. Mokuba had been too young to feel that he could demand things like this from his brother. He had idolized Seto too much. And then he had been afraid of what guilt would do.

“I was thinking, of course this was the next thing that had to happen.” The words came slowly. Seto stood up. They had been in his home office, not really working — Mokuba had a school project and Seto had some lingering game designs, but it was Friday night and neither of them had felt pressured. It was late, though, and the house was empty except for them. “That’s what losers deserve.”

The look Seto gave Mokuba was unusual, but Mokuba knew it was worry. Seto was trying to figure out how Mokuba was reacting to his words. Mokuba only put on an encouraging smile. Something dark flickered across Seto’s face — frustration or guilt.

“I’m sorry. I’m — sorry that,” Seto’s mouth snapped shut. His expression seemed to collapse in on itself. Mokuba bit his lip. “I’m sorry.” Was all that Seto got out again before he left the room.

“I forgave you a long time ago, nii-sama.” Mokuba said to no one. But he had promised himself that he wouldn’t say it out loud until Seto had confronted it. It was hard, doing things like this for his big brother. It had been easier when he was a kid and he could just tell Seto that he was glad he was there, or support him, or carry his briefcase. But now he was a teenager and Seto didn’t have any rivals to chase after. Now they both had too much time to think. In some ways, Mokuba was realizing, his brother carried everything with him — Gozaburo, Death T, Battle City, even the Egypt he vehemently denied — and Seto seemed stuck at age nineteen.

Mokuba didn’t want to become older than his brother.

—

“So, the knight only goes in an L shape.” Seto held up the chess piece and moved it on the empty board. “He can’t go as far as some of the other pieces, but since he’s riding a horse —“

“He _is_ a horse!” Mokuba interrupted, delighted. 

“Yeah, since he is a horse,” Seto agreed and ruffled his brother’s hair. “He can jump over things. A lot of people like to move the knights out first.” He arranged the pieces on the board and ‘jumped’ the knight over the row of pawns.

“My favorite.” Mokuba declared. “I’m a knight.”

“You are. You know, your name is like this —“ Seto sketched out the characters on the desk. Mokuba waited for him to explain them. “Wood. Horse. Just like the knight.”

“Which one are you? Seto, which one!”

“Hmmm, maybe I’m not a piece.” Seto grinned. He moved a few pieces around, forming a circle around a black knight. “I’m the person who moves the pieces around, see? And that way I can make sure everything works out in the end.”

“But if you’re not a piece I don’t want to be one either!” Mokuba picked up the black knight.

“It’s just a silly metaphor, Mokuba, don’t worry. We’re always on the same side.”

Mokuba nodded. He didn’t really get the first part, but the second part was what was important.

“Do you want to learn how to play, though? We can just play for fun, so it doesn’t matter who wins or loses.” Seto put the pieces back into their proper places. He like chess, but more than that he liked playing games with Mokuba. There weren’t many games to play at the orphanage — especially not ones for just two people. Checkers and Othello were the other two they could play, but Seto didn’t think Mokuba would like those as much. Honestly, Seto didn’t like them as much but he was _sure_ that his little brother would also like chess because chess was better.

If they had Scrabble, though, he would have taught Mokuba that instead.

—

For Mokuba’s birthday Seto took a week off of work. They flew to Northern France and took a road trip through the countryside. Mokuba wasn’t surprised to learn that Seto had a French driver’s license or that he spoke fluent French. He was surprised when Seto let him drink and go to discotheques though. He even let Mokuba go _unsupervised_ — but with a curfew.

Mokuba liked the clubs. It was a nice chance to meet people — even if his French wasn’t as good as Seto’s. He found out that he preferred liquor to wine but beer to liquor. His first kiss had been on the dance floor and to someone who he didn’t remember their name. It was also the same night that he had come home and vomited on the floor and then tried to clean it up but he was too drunk to do much more than put a bath towel over the mess.

Seto didn’t say anything. He was still awake, of course. Instead he guided Mokuba to the bathroom and held his hair back as he vomited again. He got Mokuba water and some bread and then went to clean up the mess, all the while silent. Then he tucked Mokuba into bed and lay next to him. When Mokuba woke up Seto was already in the kitchen, making hot chocolate and bread.

“I burned it.” He confessed to a hungover Mokuba. For some reason it made Mokuba laugh, but that only made his head hurt more.

“Don’t make me laugh, nii-sama — I’m sorry — too. . .” He got out between laughter and winces.

“We’re going to have to have a talk about responsible drinking.” Seto said firmly. The ladle in his hand, still dripping hot chocolate onto the tile floor of the house they were renting, was held so tightly his knuckles were white. “But I’ve been doing some reading and apparently this is _normal_ behavior for young people. Throwing up and being hungover.”

It was a joke. Sort of. Mokuba laughed harder, gratefully accepting painkillers and water and slightly burned bread. 

“Thank you. This is the best birthday present.” Mokuba told his brother. The expression on Seto’s face told him that he didn’t understand.

But Mokuba thought, maybe, this meant his brother was moving on.

—

His tutor broke his wrist. It wasn’t an accident at all. There was no point in complaining about it. Even when Gozaburo had eyed the splint with distaste and said _Don’t be so clumsy, boy._ He had wanted to say that he wasn’t clumsy, he hadn’t fallen, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He wanted to say that his tutor had grabbed his hand and forced it back until something had popped in his wrist. It hadn’t hurt, first, and he hadn’t cried. A small part of Seto wondered if he told Gozaburo that, would he be praised for dealing with it like a man? An equally small part knew that he would just be a disappointment — tattling was something only weak people did.

“I’ll do better.” Seto promised.

“This way the boy will learn to write with his left hand.” His tutor supplied with a thin smile. Seto watched the two adults. He noticed the way Gozaburo tilted his head and how the tutor bowed. There was something being said between them that Seto couldn’t read.

“Rewrite all your old essays.” Gozaburo instructed. “If you’re going to be one handed you better learn to be just as good with your left as you are your right.”

“Yes, sir.” Seto promised.

The pen felt clumsy in his left hand. His essays were long. The clock on the wall said that it was past dinner, the ache in his stomach echoed the sentiment. It would have taken him four hours to rewrite the two essays on his desk, probably a whole day to complete every essay in his desk, but that had been with his right hand. His left hand didn’t even know how to hold a pen.

Seto knew he had two choices. The first was to write sloppily and desperately and then get beaten for producing subpar work. The second was to write neatly and slowly and get beaten for being slow.

No, Seto had three choices.

He would just have to be better than he was. That’s what Gozaburo was teaching him after all, wasn’t it? Seto could be better. Seto could be the best, all he had to do was force himself to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I generally don't know what to say in author's notes, but I realize that I have things I want to say! First off, this is probably my longest fanfic to date, word count wise and that's stunning to me. Second, Patricide is an exercise in a character who is stuck. Mokuba's section up top mentions it rather explicitly in this chapter, but I was hoping that both the format and the fic itself were already pointing that way. This would also be why Noa does and will play a part in the story telling.
> 
> Seto Kaiba is stuck. I think Mokuba is the only character (outside of certain interpretations of Seto's views on Yuugi) that can represent a future and a past for Seto at the same time. But he's also someone who is really weighed down by his personal demons and defenses -- both of which have served him well but part of life is moving forward. And I imagine there's a lot of weird familial obligations and feelings to navigate for the brothers. Plus, Mokuba isn't as sunshine as an angel either, so there's a lot for both of them to work on.
> 
> Honestly, I'm not sure we'll get there, even as I'm writing this fic. It's really an exercise in can I make Kaiba meander towards growing up, laughs! If you've read "Kingship" -- well that's almost the companion to this piece. Kingship would be "yes, he can move forward" and Patricide would be "we're not sure, but we're trying."
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

He had wanted a pet. A dog, a cat, an exotic snake, once he had even asked for a tiger. His father’s lip had curled in easy denial. But the Christmas after Noa found that his father had bought a lion cub. He named it Alexander, after the great conqueror, and insisted that they hire an animal trainer.

“I won’t have you teaching it _tricks_.” Gozaburo hadn’t snapped — he was never short of patience with Noa, but rather exuded expectations and withheld praise if he wanted to teach his son a lesson — but his tone was firm. “He is your pet, and your choices will reflect on you.”

“Of course I won’t, father, but it would be a shame not to have him . . . well-trained.” Noa tried to recapture his father’s corporate dismantling voice. It was the tone of voice he had heard his father use on phone calls, calm and collected and cold with threat. He wasn’t sure he had succeeded, but his father had given him a wide smile.

“That’s my boy. It’s certainly more impressive than a dog, isn’t it?” 

“He’s perfect.”

The lion died two years later. The weather in Japan wasn’t suited for the big cat and as soon as the lion got large enough, it became difficult to feed. Noa hadn’t had the time — or the desire, really — to look into it. It was winter when the lion died, too thin, too tame and hardly impressive anymore. Noa thought he would be sad when his pet died, but he saw his father’s disgusted sneer and mimicked the expression.

“What a weak animal, it was unworthy of you.” Gozaburo meant, it was unworthy of the Kaiba name.

Noa agreed. He had wanted a fierce lion to stand by his side and intimidate people, to snarl at his enemies and make him feel like a king. The mangy animal wasn’t that at all. He couldn’t figure out though, why after his father left and they wrapped the lion in black trash bags and threw the corpse out, why he sat on his bed and felt hollow. 

He never got a pet for a present ever again.

—

“Kaiba-kun.” It was somewhat of a ritual. On the anniversary of the day that the other Yuugi had left, Kaiba Seto and Mutou Yuugi would meet for dinner. The first year it had been at a fancy restaurant and been an unmitigated disaster. That had mostly been Seto’s fault, he had been snide and uncooperative and threatened to never meet again.

Time didn’t heal all wounds, but it did mean they navigated the disaster zones a little better.

“Yuugi.” This year they met at a small discreet bistro. It was new, French, and Kaiba could have bought the damned place with less than a day’s work. The only deviance in their almost ritualistic greeting had been the other boy that had dropped Yuugi off. Kaiba would have known him as ‘another of your annoying friends’, and while that was what he said, a moment of understanding passed through all three of them.

Kaiba would not have forgotten Bakura Ryou’s name, even if he chose not to say it out loud. And he did not miss the way Yuugi angled slightly towards Bakura when they parted, or Bakura’s promise to pick him up afterwards. Dinner never lasted more than an hour.

“Another year, and you haven’t changed at all.” Kaiba ground out when they were alone. He ordered coffee and a simple crepe with strawberries.

“You always say that, but I’m beginning to think that you don’t really mean it.” Yuugi countered brightly. He ordered a blackberry French soda, beignets and a ham and cheese pressed sandwich.

The opening moves sat between them. Kaiba narrowed his eyes. Last year, he had been the first one to make the next move, to mention that Mokuba was attending school. The year before Yuugi had broken the stalemate by mentioning Anzu’s acceptance to a prestigious dance school. They usually traded off.

“The way you stagnate disgusts me.” This year, though, Kaiba broke pattern and went on the offensive almost immediately. His lip curled, to show just how disgusted he was.

Yuugi was relatively immune to Kaiba’s scorn, however. “Are you still carrying those demons around with you?” And there was a way that he sat a little straighter, responding to the aggression, that reminded Kaiba far too much of the other Yuugi.

“No, they’re long dead.” 

“We could still be friends.” It was either a joke or an attack.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been searching for. Thank you for your _kind_ offers. What exactly do I get out of friendship with you?”

Either Yuugi had timed it perfectly, or his unnatural talent with games extended to even this, but the waiter arrived with their food.

“We could share my beignets.”

Kaiba didn’t agree. The rest of the evening was spent jabbing at Yuugi’s choices, but Kaiba had never beaten Yuugi in all their conflicts. Either of them. And when Yuugi left, there was a single beignet remaining on the plate.

—

Noa had only met his grandfather once. The man had been wide and broad, with a face that would later remind Noa of a bulldog, at the time it had scared him. His father had held his shoulders and he had been a child and cried when his grandfather leaned close to inspect him.

“For god’s sake, shut the child up.” His grandfather had snapped. Noa had noticed the difference between his grandfather and his father immediately. His grandfather was angry, sharp, prone to yelling and making obscene hand gestures. His grandfather didn’t walk with power but was constantly flanked by two intimidating bodyguards. His grandfather looked like a greedy pig.

Noa hated his grandfather. He much preferred the way his father worked. Gozaburo had some of the same broadness in the shoulders, but he never snapped around Noa. He didn’t yell around Noa, even if he demanded.

Noa was sure, his father loved him.

When Noa was seven, his grandfather was backstabbed. Quite literally backstabbed. It had been the work of one of his bodyguards, but it was unlikely the man had acted on his own. Gozaburo had carried Noa into the room where his grandfather had died and held the boy in his arms.

“Do you know what this means, Noa?” He asked. Noa shook his head. Death wasn’t really a concept to him then. It was all about _removing_ things that bothered him. His father removed bothersome things all the time. Annoying employees were fired. Gozaburo was part of a budding empire, and sometimes people just _disappeared_.

“It means that your grandfather won’t be around anymore, and that this is all mine.” Gozaburo had been smug, but Noa could only read the emotion as pride and affection. “He had his uses.”

If Noa woke up that night, terrified about a dark red pool in the carpet that pulled him under, that was his own weakness.


	7. Chapter 7

Seto couldn’t concentrate. The stock report was still unread, to his side and in front of him his research showed a big fat nothing. No connections had been found. No leads on the terrorists using his weapons. No leads on the seller. Nothing. He should give up for the night.

He picked the metal ruler up off the table and flicked it across the back of his other hand. It barely stung, but the sound and sensation was enough to jump-start his brain. In the years that he had stopped playing Duel Monsters, Seto had come to several realizations about himself. One was that he could easily put his mind back into the place it had been when he was thirteen and designing bombs, or fourteen and courting more companies for hostile takeover than any teenager should have. All he had to do was something that reminded him of his tutor or his punishments. A slap to the back of the hand was easiest, most discreet.

While Gozaburo had favored insulting other people as a method of concentration, that just didn’t work for Seto. He’d tried it, but found it almost as exhausting as being frustrated. He wasn’t a liar, and being reminded of everyone else’s shortcomings only served to make him angrier at the world.

That train of thought broke him out of his work. No, he had spent some time as a liar. A thief. It burned in his stomach, like a toxic blush somehow equal parts embarrassing and deadly. If he let it the thought would erode at his control. There was only hate and anger there and while he found both perfectly useful tools but hadn’t he decided — 

He flicked the ruler against his hand again, irritated that he’d let his thoughts wander. He had work to do.

Hours later, he finally snapped the ruler against the desk, irrevocably bending it. Nothing, still. The night sky outside of his office window had taken on a dull violet glow, an indication that the sun was beginning to rise. He checked the clock, mildly dismayed to find that it was 3am. Then he remembered that Mokuba was at a sleepover.

Seto set the alarm for half past eight, a reminder to call Mokuba and see how the sleepover went. Then he went back to work, channeling frustration into furious typing.

—

He’d only been spanked once. His mother had done it, angry and terrified after he’d broken a glass and then tried to clean it up to hide the mess from his parents. He had been clumsy, both times, and ended up with glass embedded in his forearm. She’d cried and yelled at him at the same time before driving him to the hospital where they had sat in the waiting room. He had held his arm up, worried and quiet. He didn’t even cry when the glass was taken out and it was stitched up. The doctor called him a brave boy, but when they got home his mother spanked him and cried some more.

“She’s just upset,” his father said.

“I’m sorry.” Seto said, but he was far more worried about his mother crying than the stitches in his arm.

—

He didn’t have a mother. Gozaburo had never remarried. At twelve, Seto thought it was amusing that a woman would had ever settled for Gozaburo in the first place. He hoped that she had been a golddigger. There wasn’t much else appealing about his father.

He did find pictures, though, in an old oak box inside the closet of his room. They were wrapped in tissue paper and had heavy golden frames. One was a beautiful young woman, she was very pretty. She didn’t look anything like a mother though. There was something very sterile about her face. Another was a picture of an old man wearing a suit and holding a cane. He looked angry, much like Gozaburo during a tirade. Not that Gozaburo’s tirades were explosive, but Seto had become intimately acquainted with the kind of simmering rage that led to people dying.

There was also a picture of a boy, but it wasn’t someone Seto recognized. He packed the pictures back into the box and replaced it in the closet. Back at the orphanage he had learned how to memorize the placement of things, so that he took something it would be less likely to be discovered. Somehow, it was still useful even if he was living in a different place.

—

“How was it?” Seto didn’t say hello when Mokuba picked up.

“Nii-sama?” Mokuba sounded sleepy. “How was what?”

“The sleepover with your friends.” Seto checked his calendar. That had been last night, and he knew it but confirmation would help. The other possibility was that Mokuba had lied to him. That seemed far-fetched, even though he knew teenagers apparently did that sort of thing. 

“Huh? Oh, that was fine.” Mokuba’s voice was quiet. “We’re going to the arcade later.”

Seto’s brow furrowed. Mokuba usually used words like ‘fine’ and ‘okay’ as sort of neutral placeholders. He wondered if something had gone wrong and Mokuba was attempting to hide it from him. Or maybe it had just been _fine_. He was used to Mokuba operating with different emotional standards. Things were great, or sucked, he enjoyed something and that was the best ever, or it made him feel bad. Experience told him that something was wrong, but nothing seemed wrong. If he didn’t push was that neglectful? It had been so long since he had considered the path of a proper father for Mokuba — not since he had been ten, before Gozaburo. He gritted his teeth.

“Nii-sama?”

“That’s fine. If you have homework I expect you to finish it after the arcade, then.” He had hesitated too long. It wouldn’t do to make Mokuba worry. His pause wasn’t supposed to be judgment.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Mokuba’s voice was even softer. Something was wrong. He knew something was wrong. He frowned.

“Do you need a ride anywhere, Mokuba? I could pick you up.” Seto tried that instead. If something was wrong then Mokuba would tell him, probably. Unless he was hiding something. Or maybe he didn’t want Seto to meet his friends. He did remember that, as well. Teenagers, parental figures, embarrassment. Something like that.

He couldn’t waste time on Mokuba today. That child was always such a bother. What a weak loser with a pathetic expression of longing. Someone who couldn’t even take care of himself —

“No, it’s fine! We had a lot of fun last night. We have to go soon, the arcade will be packed! See you at dinner.” Mokuba hurried to say. “Bye, nii-sama.”

“Bye, Mokuba.”

He dug in his desk for the ruler but didn’t find it.


	8. Chapter 8

He had woken up one morning and Mokuba was gone. Seto berated himself for sleeping when he knew he couldn’t trust the adults at the orphanage. He couldn’t believe, at first, that a few hours of sleep had robbed him of his little brother, but it had. In a storm he ran to the director’s office, banged on the door, he threw a fit that was well below his years. He was reprimanded and a solid looking man with an ugly face told him that a foster family had picked Mokuba up late last night.

Don’t be a brat, he’ll have a good home.

Seto had said, he can’t have a good home without me, but the truth was he wasn’t so sure. It felt like a piece of his heart had been ripped out, to go back to his bed and know that Mokuba wouldn’t be coming back. It wasn’t unusual for orphanages to split up siblings. They had been lucky, for some time. Or, unlucky. Since their relatives had abandoned them at the orphanage gate there had been no instructions, no state worker or other guardian to put in a good word for them. And, Seto’s behaviour had been enough to cause too much trouble for the orphanage staff.

They had urged him to behave, to be kind to people who looked down on him and to be kind to children who bullied Mokuba.

The next week was the hardest in Seto’s life. He just didn’t care anymore. He played their game of behaving well. He did what they asked and when they didn’t ask him to do anything he went to the park and sat on the bench. A young mother who took her children there asked him if he was waiting for someone, every day he went. He always said yes. 

On the eighth day after Mokuba was gone, he was back. Seto had trudged back to the orphanage to the sight of a couple — older, well-dressed — carefully walking Mokuba back through the gates. The mother looked distressed, she wrung at her shirt hem and the father looked pissed. Mokuba looked terrible, though, and that was what Seto focused on. His little brother looked unhappy and worn and like he hadn’t eaten or slept. Seto’s eyes found redness on his brother’s hands that could only come from pounding on something.

He ran to them and shoved at the man without thinking. “Mokuba!” And all at once everything was right in the world. Mokuba clung to him and cried _Nii-sama_ against him and Seto promised he’d never let them split them up again. 

In the background the woman spoke to the director, too loudly to not be overheard.

“I thought we would be welcoming a little angel to our family. The — the perfect addition. Out of the kindness of our hearts, we really did try.” And then the husband cut in.

“But he’s a little monster. I was afraid for my life and the life of my wife and our real children. How could you let us take him home? He threw a tantrum and I thought he was going to kill us.” The man shook his head. “We would like a refund for our fees, too.”

Seto wouldn’t forget those words and he wouldn’t forget those faces, even as he held his brother and whispered nothing but comfort to him.

—

Something was wrong. After Seto had picked Mokuba up from spending time with his friends his brother had been unusually quiet. Intense. Focused inward. It was an expression Seto was used to seeing on himself but never on Mokuba.

He had, in the past, demanded answers. And he had, in the past, not asked anything. Neither had been the appropriate tactic. As a teenager he hadn’t known that and alternated between pushing and pulling, ignoring and indulgence.

But, he was trying to be better. Or something like that. As always there was a running commentary in the back of his head a scathing address to how if Mokuba couldn’t just tell him it was a waste of time, he didn’t need that loser dog following at his heels, if Mokuba was meant to take over Kaiba Corp then he would have to grow up.

He’s still a kid, Seto thought at himself, aggressively.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

“Not really,” Mokuba said glumly.

“I think it would be better if you did.” Seto said, lamely.

Mokuba looked over at him with an odd expression. That kind of comment wasn’t in line with Seto’s normal confidence. Seto shrugged, shuffled papers, wondered why Mokuba spent so much time hanging out in the home office with him when he could be doing something fun.

“They thought I was showing off.” Mokuba finally said.

“Were you?”

“I wanted them to like me.”

He didn’t really understand that. Seto didn’t want anyone to like him, as general rule. He could even live if Mokuba didn’t like him, as long as Mokuba was okay. But the slump to Mokuba’s shoulders and the few times he had heard his brother complain, cry, break down over social things like this were a few too many.

“And they saw through it.”

“It wasn’t a lie! It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault at all. They’re just — awful. I hate them.” There was a bitterness to Mokuba’s voice that twisted Seto’s gut. The only group of friends that Mokuba had had that didn’t send his brother into this state had been that gang. During that time. Or Yuugi and his friends, but they hardly counted.

“You don’t have to impress people to make them like you.” Probably, anyway.

“You don’t have any friends.” Mokuba said darkly. He was in a mood.

“Try not offering them things, people probably will see it as a bribe.” It was odd, how children seemed to react much like businessmen at unasked for payment. They had the kind of intuition that saw through sweetened traps and could tell when someone was baiting them for a greater purpose. Mokuba was good but he was still young. Seto wouldn’t trust his younger brother, yet, to make the kind of clever ruses that would go by unnoticed in the business arena.

Apparently, the same went for the teenager social arena.

“I wasn’t bribing them,” the reply was soft, hurt.

“Mokuba.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

Seto should probably have ruffled Mokuba’s hair, then. But instead he stared, studied, tried to grasp the root of the problem so he could troubleshoot and fix it. By the time he had thought of it, a gentle gesture of comfort, Mokuba was already out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s Mokuba who pointed it out. He spread the photos that Seto kept, for some reason even long after Gozaburo was dead, on the dining room table. He sorted through them with the kind of glee that Seto didn’t understand.

“It’s not really our family, but it’s kind of fun.” Mokuba said and he pushed another picture of Gozaburo into the pile he had labeled ‘to burn’. It wasn’t as though Seto could disapprove of that, really.

“Is this Noa’s mom?” Mokuba asked, pulled the photo of a beautiful woman out of the bunch. Seto studied it. There was a lot of Noa in the woman’s features, they had the same hair and the same odd little smirk. What Seto didn’t see was any of Gozaburo. “I don’t think Noa looks anything like that man.” Mokuba said, finally, when Seto hadn’t said anything.

“Looked.” Seto corrected and looked at the photos of Gozaburo.

It was true. Noa Kaiba didn’t look at all like the man they had all called father at some point and time. The woman, perhaps, was Noa’s mother but there was no label and no identifying papers to go with the photos.

“It would have been nice to have another brother,” Mokuba said, wistfully, “I wouldn’t mind having a little brother of my own.”

The second part is added on, though. Seto just made a noncommittal noise, and helped Mokuba sort more photos into the to burn pile.

—

It wasn’t punishment and that made it worse.

Seto’s arms complained and an hour ago he had felt a twitch deep in the muscles in his back that hadn’t stopped. His feet could barely reach the floor. Four hours ago his _practical lessons_ tutor had tied his hands above his head and then hooked the rope to a dangling ring in the ceiling.

He would be there another twenty hours, at least, he knew.

The first time he had been taught this lesson every hour his tutor had reappeared to announce the time. To ensure that he wasn’t asleep. To see if Seto had been keeping track of time.

Practice makes perfect.

Now, Seto could track time with his internal clock alone for sixteen hours. He could fend off a headache from twenty-four hours awake, ignore hunger and thirst. The ache in his shoulders was nothing. He would still be expected to write his reports, balance the ledgers and do all his regular work when he was released. Working through pain was an acquired skill.

The problem was Seto had let himself hope, at hour five. He hoped that he would only be there for one day, in the dark and left alone with the strain in his back and the itch of new scabs on his arms and the bottoms of his feet.

So, of course, it was twenty-nine more hours before anyone came for him.

—

Instead of hunting after the terrorists who used his designs — that road was dead and cold and frustrating — Seto researched Noa Kaiba’s existence. There was little record of the boy before a certain time, but that wasn’t a surprise. Gozaburo and his associates weren’t the type to advertise their heirs. Not until they were worth advertising, anyway.

After he looked more, scoured birth records and paychecks to home tutors, Seto was struck with the feeling that maybe Noa hadn’t been Gozaburo’s son at all. At least, not by blood.

Old tabloids linked Gozaburo to women, once or twice. There had been a marriage certificate from when Gozaburo was much younger — Seto’s age, even — but it didn’t line up with the woman who appeared to have been Noa’s mother.

He had, once, taunted Gozaburo about being impotent. And he’d been punished by having his toenails removed by a pair of pliers and been forced to stand on tacks for the next day of his lessons. At the time he had assumed it was because he was allowed some rebellion — challenge was expected in an heir — but he wasn’t allowed to make comments about Gozaburo’s power or virility.

It had been a delicate balance and Seto had learned those lessons faster than his books. He never made the same mistake twice. Which was to say nothing about calculated strikes.

To make sure he would have to have Noa’s body. Seto frowned. Noa’s funeral had been closed, and he was willing to bet that the grave was empty. Another useless endeavor.

Frustration colored the rest of his afternoon. He snarled and snapped at anyone who entered the office. Wasted time, wasted money. He was a fool.

Seto called Mokuba, left a message, to let him know that he wouldn’t be home that night. He had wasted too much time and now he had to catch up. A sourness in his stomached alerted him of the lie. There was no need to catch up. Kaiba Corp ran like a perfect machine, Seto had ensured that years ago and even after the difficulties of attempted takeovers and erratic stocks it would probably take assassination and bombs to bring the company down.

—

He had been so angry about his designs being used to kill someone and yet when it came to his first up close and personal murder, Seto felt no anger. It had been a treat, a congratulations from Gozaburo, that Seto was allowed to come to the meeting and that it would be Seto who would pull the trigger.

“Make me proud, son.” Gozaburo had laughed, lit his cigar.

The man that Seto was to kill was a father of three. He had tried to play Kaiba Corp and its rival, to sell information to both sides and of course, like a fool, he’d been caught.

Seto had known that if he just shot the man it would cement his place as Gozaburo’s heir in a way that he hadn’t been before. It would mean he was allowed at subsequent meetings, if his face stayed steady and he had shown that he was a man.

But he had to do more than that. Gozaburo expected to be made proud, for Seto to show off his skills and brutality worthy of not just Gozaburo’s heir, but the successor to the Kaiba Corp legacy.

So he made the man beg. And then after the man begged Seto mentioned that he might forgive him, if he gave them something useful. Ten minutes after the man had emptied everything he knew about their rival Seto thanked him.

The man had smiled, laughed nervously and stood up. Seto shot him through the forehead, then.

Later that night Gozaburo had given him permission to see Mokuba all the while knowing that Seto wouldn’t take it. Gozaburo had seen, even if his associates hadn’t, the angry shake in Seto’s hands after he had put the gun down and the way that the corners of Seto’s mouth had become pinched and hard.

There was no way that Seto would lay next to his brother that night, not when he had just killed someone after giving him false hope.


	10. Chapter 10

Noa wasn’t a child, not anymore. He had the entire scope of whatever network he was connected to at his fingertips. And, there was something missing. Some part of himself that wasn’t just his physicality — after all, the virtual world could imitate synapses and touch, even if he rationally knew it wasn’t _real_.

He thought about asking his father, but Gozaburo hadn’t been interested in the workings of the program. When he came to talk to Noa it was about business, about the day to day of things. He didn’t ask Noa how he was, how Noa felt and soon Noa saw the new heir. The child that was Noa’s replacement.

It wasn’t difficult to spy on him, not when Noa’s own mainframe was connected to Kaiba Corp’s systems. He was satisfied, at first, when he noticed that the new heir was treated differently from him. Noa had been doted on. Noa was certain that he had been loved. The new heir was not.

Then, one day, his father stopped coming. And soon after Noa’s access was cut down, someone ruthlessly sorted through Kaiba Corp’s network and disconnected the old pathways, installed new security and not even Noa’s skill could get through it.

—

“Hey, Mokuba, you free this afternoon?” Suzuya was Mokuba’s best friend at school. In some ways, he was Mokuba’s only real friend. The only friend who hadn’t ditched Mokuba after the disastrous sleepover. Mokuba liked Suzuya, but found him a little weird. Suzuya was the kind of person who let other people push him around, didn’t want to cause trouble and a completely average student. Comfortable with mediocrity. 

“I — I think my brother might need me for something,” Mokuba frowned. It wasn’t entirely true, but he knew that Seto wouldn’t mind if he hung out. Seto would probably be glad for it, but he’d been working late so much. Almost every day, and he’d stopped giving excuses. Mokuba wanted to be there for his brother.

“Man, he really works you hard.” Suzuya laughed. “You’re like a little miniature Kaiba.”

“I _am_ a Kaiba.” Mokuba almost snapped.

“Woah, chill. I just mean — your brother’s a workaholic. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to relax, Mokuba.”

“Sorry, I think we’re just under stress. Running a company is hard work.” Mokuba forced a bit of a grin. “Maybe this weekend you could come over? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“What? Really? To the Kaiba mansion?” Suzuya’s eyes widened. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean. . . you’ve had me over to your place.”

“Cool. I wouldn’t turn it down for the world. Let me check with mom and then we’ll hang out at your place this weekend!”

“It’ll be fun.” Mokuba said, softly.

—

Fragments of Noa still existed on the Kaiba Corp mainframe, hidden away. Seto could delete them, if he took apart the hardware as well, but Gozaburo had been a father in that at least.

A parent should never have to bury a child.

—

“Nii-sama.” After school Mokuba went to the office. He stayed in the breakroom, did his homework and helped himself to dinner at the cafeteria. It was eight before he ventured up to Seto’s office. As he suspected Seto was still at his desk, the laptop opened next to the monitor.

“Mokuba, shouldn’t you be at home?”

“How late are you working tonight?” 

He couldn’t see Seto’s face, but he suspected there was a frown that turned into a deeper frown before it erased itself for business pleasant. That was good, it meant things were going well, but it was also bad because it meant Seto didn’t _need_ to stay late.

“Until work is done.”

“Nii-sama, please come home with me.”

“I don’t have time for this, Mokuba.” 

“Don’t lie to me, please.” Mokuba lingered in the doorway. “I need you with me.”

Seto looked up from his work then. His gaze said that he was evaluating the statement, but he closed with the laptop with one hand, the other moving across the keyboard in a familiar shut down pattern.

“Sorry, Mokuba. I told you I’d work fewer nights, huh?” A softness moved across Seto’s face. It would never be the same as that ten year old from the orphanage, in the locket around Mokuba’s neck, but it was far better than before. “One moment.”

“I’ll wait.”

—

Noa hadn’t had many friends. Playmates weren’t truly friends and certainly not the children that his father brought by for companionship. Most of them were older, were more skilled and had a condescending doting when it came to Noa.

“See, it’s like this,” a boy that Noa would forget in another year, a boy that would vanish in another three months, showed him how to tie a noose. “Cool, right?”

“Who uses nooses?” Noa scoffed. “Do you really think that will be useful?”

“It’s a good knot to know. I didn’t have anything else to show you.” The other boy was so uneasy. Noa thought, there was no need to indulge such a thing.

“Then don’t bother. We could play a game instead, if you want. Your educating me is about as tiresome as your conversation.”

“What a spoiled brat.”

Noa rolled his eyes. “Is that the best you can do? I’m Noa Kaiba, and soon I’ll be the CEO of Kaiba Corp. What do you have to offer me besides useless knots? The burden of worth is on _you_ , not me.”

“You don’t really know what’s going on at all, do you.” The boy sighed. “Someone else is cutting the checks right now, so maybe you should think that it. I do.”

Noa laughed. What use was that?

—

Seto, as predicted, had been glad that Mokuba invited Suzuya over. It wasn’t glad in a way that most people would recognize, but Mokuba had years of practice. It was all in the silence after Mokuba mentioned it and then the hair ruffle and, “As long as you clean up after yourselves, do whatever.” Seto had always been a stickler for responsibility. 

“We can do whatever you want,” Mokuba started and flushed a bit. “I — don’t want to show off, but we have some cool games and stuff. . .”

Suzuy grinned. “You’ve probably got _every_ game. As long as we play something I have a fair chance at, I’d love it.”

“Oh, there’s some I haven’t even played! But we get prototypes for a lot of things. . .”

“Cool, let’s raid your game closet then.”

Suzuya wasn’t very good at most games, but they ended up with three dimensional chess and Mokuba was awful at that too. Seto dropped by, just once, to meet Suzuya. There was an awkward strained silence as Seto looked him over and then informed Mokuba if he wanted a snack to let him know. Then he left them to fumble through the chess tower again.

“Your brother’s kind of scary.”

“You think so? He was being nice.”

“I’d hate to see him when he’s not being nice.”

Mokuba smirked. “Don’t worry, if we get hungry I’ll be the one to ask him for snacks. He probably likes you, or he would have kicked you out by now. I think I have you in check.” Suzuya frowned at the chess tower and then sighed and admitted defeat.


	11. Chapter 11

He had found it, almost by accident and that was galling. Seto glared at the emblem on his computer screen. A simple stylized lion that was missing the tip of its tail. A company with no past and no future, something so innocuous that he could have let it slip by — and he had, for several weeks now.

The first piece to the puzzle of where the designs had come from for those terrorist attacks. An empty company left on the servers from a time that predated Seto’s handling of the company. An old connect from Gozaburo, perhaps.

It seemed impossible. A ghost in the ghost in his system. But it also made a kind of twisted sense. Weapons from the past, a buried body that he had failed to clean out when he had taken over Kaiba Corp. Seto frowned, he paged his secretary. “Cancel my appointments for today. Reschedule them, if you need to.”

There were documents to look at, things he hadn’t opened since he buried Gozaburo for the second, third, time. It would put him in a mood, undoubtedly. There was no way to look at the past without feeling it creep back into his mind. He wasn’t one of Yuugi’s stupid friends and he lacked Yuugi’s own devotion to the past.

It was only after he was elbow deep in the past that he remembered, fleetingly, that he should have let Mokuba know he’d be late again. The thought entered his head at the same time as his eyes scanned over the dates buried in the logs. This back door was from before they had been adopted, created soon after Mokuba had been born.

Ironically, the same month their mother had died.

—

“Once upon a time, there was a young knight. He served under a kind king, but he was the youngest of all the knights, the newest, and he had the most to prove, he thought.” Seto’s mother was beautiful. Of course, he would have thought her beautiful no matter what, but he was certain that anyone who met her would agree. “So he went to slay a dragon. The most famous dragon in all the land.”

“You can’t stop there,” Seto cried, “The story has just begun!”

“Every night, let’s add onto it. What do you think happened next?” She tucked him in and bent to kiss his forehead.

—

Seto was too tense to go home by the time the work day ended. The back door he had found led to more and more. An entire system of paths that he hadn’t known were in his network. Some of them he had traced to the defunct clusters that used to be Noa Kaiba’s metaphorical ‘brain’, but those were long cut off.

He had been sixteen and thought himself invincible when he had done the first sweep of the system, when Kaiba Corp had become properly his. And he had been a teenager and full of confidence in his abilities when he hadn’t double checked. A simple, foolish, mistake. It was impossible to know what else might have been leaked, or if nothing had been leaked by a single ancient idea. Not until he found the other end of the dump.

It could have been going on for years.

It’s too easy for him to fall back into patterns. He packed his briefcase slowly, attempted to exorcise Gozaburo’s admonishment from his ears. It was, even, far kinder than the old man would ever have given him. And, it was in contrast to the running commentary about Mokuba, how Seto shouldn’t coddle him, avoiding his brother because his temper was foul was unnecessary, the brat would have to learn.

He gripped the handle of the heavy briefcase with one hand and stiffly made hims way out of the office. It would be a betrayal to not go home at all, but would it be any better if he inflicted his moods on Mokuba? Seto scowled.

—

“The knight decided not to kill the dragon after all. The dragon hadn’t done anything wrong, except be a dragon. Soon the knight and the dragon became the best of friends. The dragon taught the knight all sorts of dragon-y things and in turn the knight taught the dragon about court.”

“That’s silly,” Seto said. His mother laughed.

“You didn’t want the dragon to die,” she pointed out.

“Wouldn’t it just eat the knight?”

“Oh no, there’s more than just bad ends to our story.”

—

“Mokuba, I’m home.” Seto was late, but only by an hour or so. His brother ran down the stairs to greet him. Grinned. Even though he was a teenager something from the younger Mokuba lingered in his face. Or maybe it was just that he’d always be Seto’s little brother.

“I thought you were going to end up working late again,” Mokuba rolled his eyes. “You’re such a perfectionist, nii-sama.”

“I got a little distracted,” Seto shrugged and set down his briefcase. His fingers hurt, a little, they carried a bit of cramping from the long walk. Part of him scolded himself, he’d carried far more for greater distances before. 

“On a new invention?”

“No, an old one.”

Mokuba gave him a funny look. Seto had to wonder if his brother ever worried that he’d reconstruct Death T or something equally stupid. The thought hadn’t ever occurred to him, it was a line he wasn’t willing to cross and for all intents and purposes, Death T had been a spectacular failure. But they both knew that mistakes happened, mistakes happened over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 20k, _Patricide_! I can't really believe this fic is this long, haha. We're finally moving towards a bit of a point though, instead of just being a character study! Thanks to everyone reading or who has left kudos!!


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